'Tong-tong, tong,' went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder.
Byrne was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena's home to
read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in his
own language.
In each of the arm-chairs, reposing across the arms, was a violin-case.
He had sat down on the edge of one seat in front of the sacred fiddle.
Helena had come quickly and removed the violin.
'I shan't knock it--it is all right,' he had said, protesting.
This was Siegmund's violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and
Byrne was always ready to yield its precedence.
'It was all right,' he repeated.
'But you were not,' she had replied gently.
Since that time his heart had beat quick with excitement. Now he sat in
a little storm of agitation, of which nothing was betrayed by his
gloomy, pondering expression, but some of which was communicated to
Helena by the increasing pressure of his hand, which adjusted itself
delicately in a stronger and stronger stress over her fingers and palm.
By some movement he became aware that her hand was uncomfortable. He
relaxed. She sighed, as if restless and dissatisfied. She wondered what
he was thinking of. He smiled quietly.
'The Babes in the Wood,' he teased.
Helena laughed, with a sound of tears. In the tree overhead some bird
began to sing, in spite of the rain, a broken evening song.
'That little beggar sees it's a hopeless case, so he reminds us of
heaven. But if he's going to cover us with yew-leaves, he's set
himself a job.' Helena laughed again, and shivered. He put his arm round her, drawing
her nearer his warmth. After this new and daring move neither spoke
for a while.
'The rain continues,' he said.
'And will do,' she added, laughing.
'Quite content,' he said.
The bird overhead chirruped loudly again.
'"Strew on us roses, roses,"' quoted Byrne, adding after a while, in
wistful mockery: '"And never a sprig of yew"--eh?' Helena made a small sound of tenderness and comfort for him, and
weariness for herself. She let herself sink a little closer against him.
'Shall it not be so--no yew?' he murmured.
He put his left hand, with which he had been breaking larch-twigs, on
her chilled wrist. Noticing that his fingers were dirty, he held
them up.
'I shall make marks on you,' he said.
'They will come off,' she replied.
'Yes, we come clean after everything. Time scrubs all sorts of scars off
us.' 'Some scars don't seem to go,' she smiled.